


I'll Cut Myself and Bleed Until I Drown Us All

by Zagzagael



Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 02:26:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1209352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zagzagael/pseuds/Zagzagael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coda - Season 4 Episode "Hands". Two nights after Clay beats Gemma to a bloody pulp.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Cut Myself and Bleed Until I Drown Us All

If asked - and truth be told she had even waited for him, the first night, miserable and alone and with an ice pack on her face - she would have said it would be Trager. Tig. If encouraged to digress from that immediate and obvious choice, she might have been persuaded to agree that it could have been, probably should have been, Unser. Wayne. She knew, without even having to pause to consider, it would never be Bobby. And never ever Chibs. 

So, as the second long night fell with a crash, she stood in the kitchen, hip cocked against the corner of the counter, freshly manicured fingers of one hand scissoring open the curtains on the window of the door, looking out at him, the bike, the dark, for a long time. Surprised and surprisingly turned on, too.

It was Happy. The gun, the hammer, the eliminator. The hatchet, liquidator, plugger, soldier, torpedo, trigger, butcher, clipper, dropper. 

Of all of them, him. 

She narrowed her eyes to screen the smoke drifting up from the burning joint in her other hand and the sweet mouthful of California’s gold made her remember her manners. But first, she wondered why, exactly, he had materialized, both dream and nightmare, bike roaring down her suburban street. He had parked jauntily in the driveway, all casual intent and purpose, and was he standing guard and if so, for whom? Was he her protector or Clay’s enforcer? She opened the door and walked outside. His reactions were pristinely measured, small and concise. He gave nothing away. Not that she wanted him to bend to her easy like that, but still. He was stone, yet she knew she could be raging water. She sauntered. For a moment she forgot how beat to hell her face was. 

He was leaning on the seat of the chopped, stripped down, blacked out Harley. All leather and jeans, tattoos, shaved head. So effortlessly the real deal. His booted feet were crossed at the ankles, arms crossed over his chest. Just watching her and her swagger. She liked that. A lot. 

His mouth was a dangerous line in his face. Clean shaven and she knew, at that moment, that he’d shave his balls. She felt a thin ricocheting, down each one of her vertebrae, a small weight settled between her thighs. It would serve Clay right for her to be thinking about Lowman and his depilated testicles. Serve him more right if she actually sucked each, one at a time, into the moist space at the back of her front teeth.

She held the joint out to him, one hand on her hip, and he took it from her. No hesitation. As though they’d been standing and jawing for some telling time now. His fingers were calloused and his flesh hot and she felt her one good eye shutter slightly closed thinking about his hands. On her.

***

She curled into the sofa, the pack of cigarettes and disposable lighter on the arm, the crystal ashtray balanced on her thigh. He grabbed a dining room chair and turned it around, straddling the seat, his chin on his forearms crossed over the back. He was looking at her, his dark eyes intent and his gaze drifting with purpose across the pummeled planes of her face. With a long, definitive sweep he licked his upper lip and spoke, the gravelly voice an aural aphrodisiac.

“Tell me,” he said. “All of it. Details.”

She pursed her lips, it hurt, and nodded. “Oh, I get it. You like to watch.”

He was quiet.

“You got a battered woman fetish, baby?

“Something like that.”

“Well you could see a lot better if you weren’t sitting all the way over there.”

***

“Most of the guys treat me like den mother.” She lit another cigarette, offered him the pack, he shook his head no. He was beside her now, knee brushed up hard against her thigh. She and Clay had fucked one another in the very same spot just the week before.

“I got a mother.”

“I guess they do, too.”

“It’s respect. But you know that. You’re more than an Old Lady. You were Queen.”

“I beg your pardon? Were?” Her blood froze, her heartbeat tripped then got back up.

He single shoulder shrugged. “Clay’s gotta die.”

“Yeah?” she whispered. She refused to think of her dethronement, Clay’s assassination. Tara as the new Queen? It burned as though acid had been tossed into her face instead of Clay’s fists.

She reached a hand out towards him, and this time she was rewarded with the slightest flinching of his eyelid. She felt triumphant. She dropped her hand to his crotch, squeezing his dick through the jeans. “You mind?”

He twisted his lips, a half-hearted smirk. “Not at all. You?”

“I don’t think I’m quite getting you but I’m feeling like we don’t really have to understand each other for this to happen.”

He nodded. “Sounds about right. I don’t like to be understood by to many people.”

“Just your momma?”

“Don’t.”

“Fair enough.” She raised an eyebrow. Suddenly, she was overcome with the need to understand him. To know him. She ground her teeth. “I do understand cock, though.” 

He grinned at this. “I’m counting on it.”

She realized that JT and Clay were nothing like this man. She wanted to be tougher than he thought she was, harder than she knew herself to be. She took a long last drag on her smoke and stubbed it out, setting the ashtray on the end table. “You shoulda known me when I was young and beautiful.”

“You’re still gorgeous. And you know that you are.”

She inclined her head in a slight kind of gratitude. “And yet, I don’t get the feeling that you particularly like me very much.” 

“Not particularly much.”

“Don’t sugar coat it for me, daddy.”

He stood abruptly and sudden and she spooked. But there was no time to shudder away from him, he had bent over and scooped her up in his arms and was walking to the back of the house, searching out the bedroom. In the dim dark, he moved expertly. She wondered if he had been there before, casing her life. He laid her on the bed and in the cast light from the hallway; he indicated she needed to strip off her clothing while he shed his own. She listened to the cut hit the carpet with a thud and she squirmed out of her jeans, pulled her top over her head and lay in dreadful anticipation. She had no idea why she was taking this to the furthest edge, but she could not stop herself if she had even wanted to. Screw Clay and their sham of a marriage. She could not hurt him physically the way he had hurt her, but she could pay the steep cost of payback. 

He did not kiss her mouth but spent hours laving the rest of her. His tongue ran hot up and down the length of her surgical scar until he finally coaxed a scream from her lips. He had hyper-sensitized her flesh. Before, during, and after the fucking. He bit the curving edge of her breast where it met her ribcage and that hurt. He sucked bruises into the soft insides of her thighs and there was a panic in the act in which she pushed infamous stories of Hells Angels and brutal gang bangs out of her mind so that she could seek out her own climax. 

After a long time he lay on his side and traced the proud fleshed line on her sternum with one long finger. 

“It’s a scar thing, baby?” she whispered. 

He was silent. 

“Have you actually seen Chibs’s face? I mean, really? Surprised you’re not all over that shit.” She was angry with him. The distance he had brought them with just his tongue and fingers and cock.

“You saying I’m a prison wolf?”

Again, he had stopped her heart for a clenching moment. She felt frightened and rendered speechless.

“Not for the lack of trying,” he said into the tense space between them and laughed. It was a strange sound in the dark quiet of the bedroom.

***

She stuttered awake, a cry lodged in her throat, painful and frightening. She needed her voice, to shout and rage, scream to wake the dead. She was immobilized but she needed her fists and her feet, to hit and kick the living.

He was sitting, on the end of the bed, cross-legged, nude. And he was staring at her. The shock of it shook her completely awake. She wanted a gun, a knife, a baseball bat. 

“Sit up,” his voice was a whip, cutting her. She did as she was told, responsive beneath the sting. Her lungs were on fire, her head white hot pain. 

“What, what’s happening?”

“You want something.”

“Are you asleep? Are you sleeping?” The questions seemed to make a perfect kind of sense to her. “Am I asleep? Is this a dream?” She reached a hand across her body and pinched her upper arm. Hard. She felt the tears spring to her eyes and squinted at him.

“Not a dream.”

“What do you want from me?” She had found her voice, steadied her pulse.

“What do you want from me?”

“What makes you think I want something from you?”

“Ask me.”

It was a dream then. “Alright. Teach me how to put the hurt on someone. Bad.”

***

She woke. The sunlight was a grey sluggish stream through the closed blinds of her bedroom. She was sore everywhere. Her face still agonizing, but she could open the black eye now. She grimaced and her lip split anew and she tasted the copper of her own blood on her teeth. And something else. Cum. Quickly she turned her head, she was alone in the bed. She was on Clay’s side and her side looked unslept in. The pillow plumped smooth, the duvet pulled up and folded neatly over. She ran her hand between the cold sheets, picked at her molars with the tip of her tongue, trying to think through the haze of her brain fog. 

She wanted to remember him. The muscular masculine body molding, manipulating her into a wholly feminine shape. In a strange black wish she regretted that he had not drawn blood, that it was Clay’s body that had bruised and marked her. She would have scarred herself for him. 

She had forgotten the dream, the deep laceration weeping inside her mind.


End file.
